I taught him that move
by Richefic
Summary: Just how did d'Artagnon come to throw his lot in with the Musketeers? Spoilers for the end of Friends and Enemies, the start of Sleight of Hand and a long missing scene for the end of that episode. Three parts charting the growing relationship between d'Artgnon, Aramis, Porthos and particularity Athos..
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer – If I owned them there would be no need for missing scenes.

AN – the comment about d'Artagnon's older brother comes from the actual history of the Musketeer on whom Dumas based the character who went to war and died in battle. I liked the symmetry of Athos having lost a younger brother and d'Artagnon having lost an older brother. I could do a lot with that.

* * *

Taking Porthos up on his offer of a game of cards it didn't take long for d'Artagnon to realise that the deck wasn't running quite as it should. He would win small amounts, not too much, just enough to encourage him to bet again, and then Porthos would sweep in and clean up. Narrowing his gaze he caught sight of the merest edge of a card up Porthos' cuff.

"I'll take another card, if I may."

Reaching over he took the new card, not from the deck on the table, but from the stash up Porthos' sleeve, placing down his discarded card with an arched brow.

"My hand, I believe."

"You have a good eye." Porthos grinned, impressed that the younger man had noticed what he was doing. He surrendered the pot of money with a rueful shrug. "I told Athos I needed to work on that."

"Will he really drink himself unconscious?" d'Artagnon wondered, glancing across the room to where the Musketeer was working his way through a bottle of wine with grim determination..

"More than likely," Porthos cast his own concerned look over at Athos. "When he gets like this it's as if he can't bear to live with himself."

"For a man so weary of life you and Aramis seemed remarkably determined to save him." d'Artagnon said carefully.

"It's complicated," Porthos scowled, as the matter was closed. Then he seemed to recall that the younger man had himself done a great deal to save the life of a man he thought had killed his father and perhaps deserved some sort of explanation. "Don't get me wrong. He would never take his own life. But a man who feels he has nothing to live for _maybe_ he can find some comfort in serving others. But then if he happens to die in combat then _maybe _so be it."

"And that is why Athos became a Musketeer?" d'Artagnon frowned. "To serve others but loose himself along the way?"

"Perhaps why he chose to be a soldier," Porthos allowed. "Not what he found."

"What did he find?"

"Brothers," Porthos declared. "Brothers who gave a damn what happened to him, who relied upon him to watch their backs, who would follow his lead without a thought. Aramis and I have always done what we can to save him from himself. Duty keeps him focused. And he would do anything in his power for a friend."

"Is that so?" d'Artagnon mused, before picking up the bottle of wine and rising to his feet.

"Whatever you're thinking," Porthos stopped him with a hand on his arm and a warning look. "I wouldn't."

"Trust me," d'Artagnon smiled beatifically. "Come on."

Shaking his head slightly at the boy's foolishness Porthos nonetheless levered himself to his feet and followed him across to where Athos was drinking alone. Porthos knew Athos would never actually hurt the boy, but at times like these the Musketeer's tongue could be as sharp as a rapier, as if it was impossible for him to keep all the seething loathing he was feeling for himself inside. His friends had learnt not to take his sharp words to heart and to graciously accept his apologies on those rare occasions when he actually remembered what he had said. The Gascon had no idea what he was walking into.

"I'm in no mood for company, d'Artagnon." Athos warned, as the young man approached his table, Porthos hovering at his shoulder.

"Forgive me, but I wondered if you both would do me the honor of drinking a toast to my father," Even as he spoke d'Artagnon was pulling up a chair and pouring the wine, deliberately making it harder for Athos to rebuff him with any degree of courtesy. "I confess, I have been so busy chasing justice for his killer I've not had a chance to raise a glass to his memory and as you were generous enough to supply this wine, and I have no one else I might presume upon in Paris it would mean a great deal if you would drink with me."

"That's quite a speech." Athos observed dryly, looking over d'Artagnon's shoulder at Porthos.

"And a clever one," Porthos noted, as he pulled up a chair in his turn, knowing by the way that Athos' shoulders had loosened slightly and his gaze had focused that the young words had been aptly judged to soften the edges of his friend's dark mood. "Perhaps you could make your fortune as a writer or a poet?"

"What's this?" Athos asked, sat up a little straighter, and put his wine glass down, as he looked between the two men.

"d'Artagnon here is in need of a new career," Porthos spoke up.

"Is that so?" Athos gave the younger man a sharp look.

D'Artagnon felt his cheeks color slightly as he realized what the other man might be thinking. A taste of adventure and the sights and sounds of the big city and he was ready to abandon his family and responsibilities and run away to become a soldier.

In that moment he realized just how important this man's good opinion was to him. As soon as he had crossed swords with Athos he had realized he was dueling with a master. And yet Athos had spared his life. Not once, but twice. First when he had refused to slit his throat and second when he had refused to take revenge for the knife thrown in fury at his retreating back. He had acted with nothing but honor and courage.

He reminded d'Artagnon a little of the father he had worshiped and he was loath to disappoint him.

"Farming is a difficult business," d'Artagnon forced himself to meet Athos steady gaze as he chose his words carefully. "Rains can destroy a year's work of work in a matter of weeks. Disease can wipe out your entire herd. And then there are the new taxes which everyone is struggling to pay. The farm wasn't doing well before we lost my father. To settle his affairs I'll probably need to sell the lands, it will be enough for a small legacy but that won't last long."

"And your family?" Athos enquired.

"My mother died when I was small. My elder brother went off to the wars and never returned," d'Artagnon shrugged, his eyes hooded. "I'm not even sure if he is dead or alive. My father saw to it that all my sisters married well. Without the farm to provide a livelihood if I return home I will only be a burden to them."

"I've been meaning to ask," Porthos put in. "How come a Gascon farm boy is so skilled with a sword?"

"My father worried there was no future in farming. He wanted to ensure that my brother and I had a board enough education to make our way in the world if need be," d'Artagnon's face twisted, as if recalling a family disagreement. "After my brother left home I think he rather regretted that I had such an appetite for it."

"Or such an aptitude?" Athos enquired mildly, causing d'Artagnon to blush deeply at the compliment from a man whose own skill with a blade he so admired. The two Musketeer's exchanged a tolerant glance at the vivid reminder of how truly young he was.

"A man who is skilled with a blade can always find ways to make a living," Porthos put in. "Especially if you ain't too fussy."

"No offence," d'Artagnon softened his words with a smile as he nodded slightly at the cards still tucked in the Musketeer's sleeve. "But I would prefer to come by an honest living if I can."

"Soldiering is honest work. Maybe, we could arrange an introduction with Treville?" Porthos looked at Athos.

"Perhaps," Athos was making no promises as he gave d'Artagnon a shrewd look, which belied the amount of alcohol he had consumed. "When you parry you can leave yourself open to the left. That's a dangerous trait if you will insist on challenging strangers to duels."

"I'll try to remember that," D'Artagnon nodded respectfully, in gratitude for the advice.

"Better to correct the fault." Athos declared.

Lifting his glass, he met d'Artangon's eyes steadily, before across glancing at Porthos, who also raised his glass. "To Alexander d'Artagnon, may he rest in peace."

"Alexander d'Artagnon." The others toasted.

Placing his empty glass on the table Athos watched as Porthos put a comforting hand on D'Artagnon's shoulder and both Musketeers pretended not to see the tears welling in their young friend's eyes. Now that the excitement was over and he had found justice for his father, d'Artagnon was painfully reminded that he was all alone in the world.

"Meet me at the garrison at day break tomorrow and I'll teach you how to parry like a Musketeer." Athos' voice cut into his maudlin thoughts.

Casting a glance at the still half full bottle of wine Athos resolutely looked away, before nodding his farewell to Porthos and taking his leave.

"Well, that's a first," Porthos marveled. "He left before the wine was out. He must be pretty serious about teaching you."

"Should I be worried?" d'Artagnon frowned.

"Naw," Porthos shook his head, as he poured them both a top up of wine. "Unlike some Athos believes that the young learn better through encouragement than humiliation. You're in good hands."

* * *

The next morning d'Artagnon could not help but feel a little nervous as he approached the Musketeer's garrison. He knew he had been well taught and had something of a talent for the sword. But Athos was older and more experienced. Add to which Porthos had kept him later at the tavern than he was used to and his head was pounding.

Still it was with a pang of disappointment that he saw only Aramis and Porthos waiting for him.

"Athos sends his apologies." Aramis greeted him. "He is engaged on the King's business. But he asked Porthos and I to fulfil his obligation to you. Our instructions are to put you through your paces. See what you are made of."

"Um, both of you?" d'Artagnon looked between them with a degree of trepidation, wondering if he was about to be punished for his previously audacity in wanting to fight all three.

"Only one at a time, this time." Aramis smiled encouragingly.

"Me first," Porthos stepped forward.

The sword play was fast and fierce. d'Artagnon's face was furrowed in concentration as he strove to keep up with the seasoned soldier. Unseen by the men below the sound of blade on blade brought Treville out of his office to watch proceedings in the courtyard when the fight was brought to an abrupt halt by Porthos aiming a sturdy kick right between d'Artagnon's legs.

"Ouch!" d'Artagnon yelped, as the blow made agonising contact and his legs gave out under him.

"Lesson number one," Porthos gave him a moment to catch his breath and then held out a hand to help him to his feet. "Never expect your opponent to fight fair. In a duel the only thing that matters is not getting killed."

"I'll bear that in mind," d'Artagnon swallowed hard, as he struggled to his feet, wincing visibly at the pain, but still readying his sword to begin again.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a swift look of approval. They had seen many a raw recruit carefully schooled in swordplay, but lacking the steel required of a soldier falter, when faced with the gritty reality of battle. d'Artagnon was young and impetuous but he was also resolute and courageous, traits of a man who could be relied upon to watch his comrade's backs in combat.

"Alright, time for a little more finesse," Aramis stepped forward and unsheathed his blade in his turn. "Let us look at your footwork."

In contrast to the raw power of crossing blades with Porthos, sparring with Aramis was almost like a dance. At first, d'Artagnon wasn't sure whether to focus on meeting blade to blade or keeping up with the elaborate ballet of movement that the Musketeer seemed to execute without conscious thought. Still his confidence began to grow as he began to match the soldier move for move, until suddenly, without warning, Aramis swept his feet out from under him and dumped him unceremoniously on his backside in the dirt.

"Lesson number two," Aramis helped him to his feet and politely dusted him off, before clapping him warmly on the shoulder. "Over confidence has been the death of many a good man."

"Duly noted," d'Artagnon nodded slowly, still feeling the impact of both "lessons". "And if I forget, I'm sure that the bruises on my bruises will be sufficient reminder."

The three men grinned at each other in a moment of perfect accord. Aramis patted d'Artagnon on the back and Porthos gripped his arm firmly. That simple human contact warmed the younger man beyond measure. Still reeling from the loss of his father, he relished the sense of fraternity and it made him ache to belong.

It was, he knew, an impossible dream. He did not have the training or the experience to become a Musketeer. He did not even have a relative who might recommend him to posting in the King's Guard's. And he certainly did not have the money it would cost to pay for the teachers and equipment he would need to achieve such a goal.

"Aramis, Porthos," A man with an unmistakable military bearing and an air of command, strode across the courtyard, nodding in greeting at the Musketeers, before casting an enquiring glance at the stranger in their midst.

"Captain Treville, may I present Monsieur d'Artagnon of Gascony, d'Artagnon, this is Captain Treville Commander of the King's Musketeers." Aramis made the introductions.

"d'Artagnon?" Treville frowned. "Wasn't that the name of the man Athos was wrongly accused of murdering?"

"Alexandre d'Artagnon," the young man nodded politely. "He was my father."

"d'Artagnon helped us clear Athos' name and see justice done." Aramis cut in swiftly. They had all agreed that as d'Artagnon was not actually a Musketeer that it was best not to bring attention to the fact that he was the one who had killed Gaudet.

"My condolences," Treville gave a sharp nod, before moving onto to what had drawn him down the stairs from his office. "You have some talent with a blade Monsieur D'Artagnon. I wonder if you might be interested in an enterprise in the service of your King?"


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer – The BBC created these excellent characters. I am just having some fun with them.

"_I wonder if you might be interested in an enterprise in the service of your King?"_

"I would be honoured," d'Artagnon drew himself as straight as possible, trying to look worthy of the honour Treville would bestow upon him as he could, covered in mud and not a few bruises.

"Perhaps you should wait and see what the mission entails before you accept?" Aramis murmured.

"If its Musketeer business shouldn't it be one of us who does it?" Porthos asked Treville.

"It's complicated," Treville admitted. "I need a man who won't be recognised as an agent of the King. Your young friend here might just be exactly what's required."

"What's this?" Athos demanded, as he strode into the courtyard, his furrowed brow suggesting he had caught at least part of the conversation and did not approve.

"Perhaps, we should take this into my office," Treville decided. "Gentlemen, follow me."

d'Artagnon followed the three Muskateers and their captain up the stairs and along the walkway to Treville's office, staring wide eyed at the armour and weapons hanging on the metal rack at the end of the bed, before belatedly realising that Treville was speaking.

As he listened to what the Captain wanted him to do, d'Artagnon observed the various reactions of the Musketeers. By the window Porthos looked excited by the challenge of deceiving Vadim, leaning against the wall, Aramis seemed stirred by the prospect of defending his King and Country. Over by the door, Athos' expression grew progressively darker as Treville outlined his plan to have d'Artagnon cast into prison alongside the infamous criminal.

"Well?" Treville was demanding. "What do you say?"

"Does he not have the chance to reflect?" Athos cut in sharply, before d'Artagnon could respond.

"Of course," Treville nodded. "I'll await your response, Monsieur d'Artagnon. But do not dwell too long. The safely of France is at risk."

Dismissed, the four men filled out of the Captain's office and made their way down the stairs. Recognising Athos' dark mood Porthos and Aramis exchanged a swift, wordless, glance and found themselves in perfect accord. If d'Artagnon could not convince Athos that he could do this without their help, then the boy had no business going up against a seasoned criminal like Vadim.

"At least listen to what he has to say," Aramis murmured, as he passed Athos.

"We was all young once," Porthos added quietly. "Everyone has to start somewhere."

Athos' dark glower did not soften in the slightest, but he nodded sharply in acknowledgement of his friends' advice.

Behind them d'Artagnon slowly descended, his posture stiff and offended and his eyes dark with hurt. Athos sighed inwardly, remembering how at the prison the younger man had hung back when his friends had come to his rescue. Clearly unsure of his welcome given that the last time they had met he had challenged the Musketeer to a duel to the death. And that soft, bashful, smile Athos knew full well he wasn't supposed to have seen, which had spread across his face at Athos' nod of approval that he had chosen justice over than revenge.

Athos was not about to repay that debt by sending the boy to his death.

"Not here," Athos commanded, when d'Artagnon opened his mouth to speak. "Let us see if we can presume on Madame Bonacieux's hospitality."

D'Artagnon's expression twisted, but he instinctively responded to that note of authority. And truth be told this probably wasn't a conversation he wanted to have in full view of the entire Musketeer garrison, nor indeed in the tavern, where the Cardinal's Red Guard's might be listening in. Nodding his reluctant acquiesce he fell into step beside Athos as they headed in silence towards his lodgings.

On their arrival he waited, impatiently, as Athos politely asked Constance to provide them with wine and then some privacy.

"You don't think I can do it." He blurted, the minute they were alone.

Athos paused in the act of filling their glasses and fixed him with a look that made d'Artagnon feel like the Musketeer could see right into his soul. The young Gascon immediately regretted his emotional outburst, realising that it had done absolutely nothing to further his cause that he could rise to this challenge. Taking a breath, he held his peace and waited for Athos to speak, trying to show that he could learn from his mistakes.

The soldier nodded fractionally in approval of his restraint, as he resumed pouring the wine, placed the bottle carefully on the table and took a long drink, before he looked d'Artagnon in the eye.

"Sit down."

Obediently d'Artagnon did as he was asked. He might be hot headed but he knew he would never impress this man by acting like a rebellious youth.

"Treville should never have approached you. There is more to this assignment that being handy with a blade." Athos frowned.

"All I need to do is parry loud enough to alert the Red Guards to the duel, spend a night in the cells and use my charm to see if I can get Vadim to tell me his plans." d'Artagnon countered. "How hard can that be?"

"Have you ever been inside a prison?" Athos asked levelly.

"No, I can't say I have."

"Have you had much practice at outwitting criminals and murders?"

"Not unless you count Gaudet." d'Artagnon said pointedly.

Athos had to give him credit for that. He had been more than a little surprised when his friends had told him just how much of a role the young Gascon had had in clearing his name, still all the more reason not to put him at such foolish risk.

"Do you even realise what might happen to you if Vadim realises that you are a spy?" He challenged

"I don't know," d'Artagnon responded hotly, feeling needled at having his inadequacies pointed out to him so bluntly. "I expect he will probably slit my throat."

He was not prepared for the way Athos' face drained of all blood, nor the way in which his hand tightened so hard on the wine glass, that d'Artagnon feared it might shatter. Without warning the Musketeer surged to his feet and turned away to lean heavily on the fireplace. Looking at the stiff set of his shoulders d'Artagnon realised that he had unwitting crossed some invisible line and immediately felt ashamed of his flippant response.

"Of course, I would do all in my power to try to avoid that." He offered carefully.

Still with his back to the younger man, Athos took a deep breath. The young Gascon could not possibly know the impact of what he had said. d'Artagnon was not even aware that Athos had had a younger brother. Much less that he had been the one to find him, with his throat cut, a tragic mix of Thomas' own overconfidence and his older brother's failure to protect him from the woman they both considered part of their family.

He would _not_ let this boy sacrifice himself so blindly.

"You do not have the training for something like this." He managed, without turning around, his voice only a little hoarse.

"Did you know what it would be like, fighting in the heat of battle, before you took to the field?" d'Artagnon countered mildly. "How can I prove what I am capable of if I am not given the chance?"

Athos might not like that argument. But he could not deny the truth of it. Slowly he turned to face the younger man, searching his face for any hint that his resolution might falter. He found none.

"You realise that you might die." Athos said bluntly.

"And I may live." d'Artagnon shrugged. "If I do not do this and Gaduet recognises you, Aramis or Porthos, do you think I would find it east to live with that on my conscience, knowing I could have prevented it?"

Athos stayed silent, torn between his duty to the King and his obligation to protect his promising but raw young man. After a long moment it was d'Artagnon who broke the silence.

"If I do not have your blessing, I will give Captain Treville my regrets." He spoke quietly.

"Trevillle was the one who approached you," Athos reminded him. "You do not need my blessing."

"I know." d'Artagnon again gave that soft, bashful, smile.

Athos pressed his lips together, slightly awed by the implication that d'Artagnon desired his approval even more than he wished to prove himself to Treveille. In his heart he wanted to withhold the words that would send d'Artagnon into such danger. But in his head he knew it was wrong to deny him the chance to show his worth. That did not mean he had to like it. Nor that he would not worry.

"We should go," He declared. "Trevillle not known for his patience, when the safety of France is at risk."

"I can do it?" The joy which lit up d'Artagnon's expression made Athos at once both glad and regretful of his decision. "I swear I will not let you down."

"Just stay alive if you can," Athos advised. "That will be all the thanks I'll need."

"I will," d'Artagnon promised. "Trust me."


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer – I have never been to Prague but now I really want to see some of the locations the folks who do own the boys have chosen to use.

Set immediately after the ending of Sleight of Hand.

* * *

"Well I don't know about you gentlemen," Aramis was the first to break the silence as he sheathed his sword and looked without pity at Vadim's dead body. "But I could do with a drink."

"Think we could get Treville to pay?" Porthos wondered. "It was his idea after all and we need to celebrate d'Artagnon's first mission with the regiment."

"I'm still not actually a Musketeer." d'Artagnon felt compelled to point out.

"It's only a matter of time," Porthos spoke up, adding with a grin. "Presuming you live that long."

"You have fought for us and bled for us," Aramis allowed patted his shoulder. "That is good enough for me."

Athos's opened his mouth to speak, then his brow furrowed slightly as he took in the boy's greying complexion, the beads of sweat on his brow and the dried blood on his forehead and was reminded of a very important fact.

"We found blood in the wine cellar."

"It's nothing," d'Artagnon brushed his concern aside. "A glancing blow, I've had worse injuries in practice."

"Is that so?"

Athos wasn't agreeing. Now the adrenalin was swiftly wearing off the younger man looked utterly spent.

"You sure you're alright?" Porthos asked in his turn. "You ain't looking so good."

"I'm fine." d'Artagnon repeated, even as his vision began to dance with black spots and he swayed suddenly. And then there was the unspeakable pain that until now circumstances had forced to the back of his mind but now demanded to be recognised.

"Of course you are," Aramis murmured, his firm hand catching d'Artagnon under the arm, stopping him from falling face first in the mud. Steering him towards the small boat pulled up onto the shore he sat the young Gascon on its prow. "Let's just take a look at you, shall we?"

Aramis' deft fingers were quick to find the small cut sat upon a sizable bump on d'Artagnon's forehead. Despite his gentle touch the Gascon could not help but yelp at the sudden pain and put a hand to his head, causing his sleeve to ride up and reveal the red raw marks and mottled bruising on his wrists.

"Those will need tending." Aramis observed. "Are there any other injuries we should know about?"

"And don't even think about trying to fool us." Porthos warned. "Cos we won't be happy."

D'Artaganon looked up at the concerned faces of the two Musketeers. Behind them and a little to the left Athos' expression was unreadable. Torn between not wanting to reveal his inadequacies and his reluctance to lie to these men, d'Artagnon took refuge in a general truth.

"I have a few bruises."

Porthos snorted loudly at that, causing Athos to raise a brow in enquiry

"Aramis and I have seen his idea of "a few bruises" when we was trying to clear your name," the Musketeer explained himself. "It ain't pretty."

Athos frowned at that particular revelation. He was already thinking through the need to get d'Artagnon somewhere his wounds could be seen to, inform Treville of Vadim's demise, arrange for the removal of the body and then see that they all had the food, rest and companionship they all sorely needed after such a night when his attention was caught by quite another matter.

"What happened to your boots?"

To d'Artagnon's utter mortification all three men stared down at his ruined boots as Aramis lifted up a foot to inspect it more closely. The boots had already been well worn, the sole almost paper thin, and creased with age. With the farm doing so badly making do had become something of a necessity. Now the leather was burnt and charred in places. In a few areas the sole had actually burnt through, revealing patches of reddened and blistered flesh.

"I think I may need a new pair." d'Artagnon tried to joke.

"Porthos, bring d'Artagnon's horse around if you would." Athos' voice was dangerously quiet.

Porthos nodded sharply and left without word.

"I can walk," d'Artagnon protested, stung at the implication that he was some helpless invalid. Although, in truth going up against Vadim, fighting loss of blood, lack of any real nourishment, the fear he had felt when he thought he might die in that cellar and then on top of the pain of his injuries realizing that Vadim had known what he was all long and might have killed him at any moment, had taken more out of him than he imagined. "I just … need a minute."

"Take your time," Aramis counselled kindly. "You have done more than your part. Vadim is dead. The danger is past. There is no sense in making injuries worse than they must be."

Athos said nothing.

D'Artagnon ducked his head in shame. As the smoke from the explosion had cleared, the first thing he had seen was the Musketeer, his eyes lit with relief as he realized the young Gascon did indeed live. The economy of his words merely Athos' way for d'Artagnon had had no trouble hearing the quiet pride behind the simple statement.

"_So, you are alive."_

But now Athos knew the full story. D'Artagnon might have killed Vadim but he had not managed to avoid being taken prisoner, his carelessness and lack of experience had gained him a collection of injuries, which could only call into question his ability to fight along side the Musketeers and to cap it all, he had utterly naive in his belief that Vadim trusted him.

"We could take him back to his lodgings ..?" Aramis voice cut into his thoughts.

Looking up d'Artagnon realized that Porthos had returned, bringing the horses. And now they were debating over what to do with him.

"Not his lodgings," Athos decided. Explanations and apologies would be required before d'Artagnon was welcomed back into his former lodgings and they did not have time for that right now. "Until Treville can speak with the King he is still a wanted man. His reception is likely to be less than cordial."

"He can't come to any of our lodging then," Aramis realized. "Those are the first places the Red Guard will look for him."

"We could take a room at a tavern." Porthos suggested. "They'll turn a blind eye to just about anything if there's enough coin in it."

"Too dangerous," Athos shook his head. "The circumstances of this mission could prove an embarrassment to the King if events became widely known. Trevile will require complete discretion."

"What about the garrison then?"

"Not there, I need space to work and after than he's going to need quiet and rest." Aramis vetoed that. But then he smiled. "However, I might know a place we can use."

* * *

The house that he led them too was a modest but well-kept residence in a prosperous part of the city. The servant who answered the door, obviously recognised Aramis and, after falling into a brief conversation, let them in without any questions asked.

"The house is ours for as long as is needed. The servants will fetch anything we require." Aramis reported. "There is a day bed in the parlour. It will be easier than carrying him upstairs."

"Er, where are we exactly?" Porthos wanted to know as they bore d'Artagnon inside. "Quite this much lace doesn't seem like anyone you might know."

"The house belongs to a widow of my acquaintance," Athos surprised then. "Her daughter has just welcomed her first child and she has gone to offer her assistance."

"You spending time with Grandmothers now?" Porthos smirked.

"It just so happens that the Grand Dame in question has a young, rather beautiful and extremely bored companion whom I have come to know quite well."

Despite d'Artagnon's protests that he would dirty the furniture they got him settled on the day bed. The musketeers responding to Aramis' requests for water, rags, and wine and herbs to douse him with the smooth efficiently of men who had performed similar tasks more times than they could count in much less comfortable circumstances.

"Here," Athos held a pewter goblet in his line of sight. "Drink this. It will help with the pain."

They all pretended not to notice how d'Artangon's hand shook slightly as he reached out to take the goblet. He took a cautious drink, only to screw up his face and almost gag.

"That's disgusting."

"Drink it," Athos insisted. "All of it."

"Have you tasted this?" d'Artangnon balked.

"More times than I care to remember," Athos met his gaze steadily, giving no quarter. "Now drink it."

D'Artangnon screwed up his face, but did as he was bid. If the Musketeer could stomach this foul brew he did not want to be seen to be acting like some whining school boy. Finishing it he held out the empty vessel for the other man to take. The slight nod of approval he gained in return did a little to restore his wounded pride.

Aramis' careful hands made quick work of tending to his abused wrists and battered torso. Athos jaw clenched tightly as he took in the red and black mottling and damaged ribs that d'Artagnon had dismissed as a few bruises.

"Athos?" Aramis looked up.

D'Artagnon felt the older Musketeer sigh as he settled on the bed behind him. Pulling him in gently Athos used his body to brace the younger man, wrapping his arms gently around his battered torso, so as to put the least possible pressure on his bruises.

"This is going to hurt." Aramis looked apologetically at d'Artagnon as he pulled out his knife. "Trust me, it is the best way."

As Porthos took up a position on his left side, bending over to anchor his leg in place d'Artagnon realised what was coming. By now his feet would have swelled and the edges of the charred leather stuck to his flesh, making it impossible to simply remove his boots. Aramis intended to cut them away, but would still need to deal with the fragments welded to his skin.

"Do it," He managed, finding a smile from somewhere to reassure the other man. "Just try not to actually take my foot off."

What followed was pure agony. As Aramis set to work d'Artagnon tried to concentrate on the soft rise and fall of Athos breathing. The warmth of his body, providing comfort against d'Artagnon's increasingly fevered chills and the strength of his arms around him, helping him to endure.

"Argh!"

As Aramis tended a particularly sore spot d'Artagnon could not help the cry of pain that was ripped from his throat as he tried to jerk away from the pain. Dimly he heard Aramis's apologies and felt Porthos taking a tighter grip on his leg.

"Courage," Athos voice spoke impossibly gently in his ear, even as his arms tightened fractionally around him. "It will be over soon."

"Athos," Aramis' tone was sharp with worry. "There are some pieces of stone inside the wounds. If I do not cut them out the infection might well cost him his foot."

"It's alright," d'Artagnon summoned his courage, determined to make Athos proud. "Do what you must."

"I could punch im?" Porthos offered. "Put him right out."

"That won't be necessary." Athos shook his head. Holding d'Artagnon just a little closer, he whispered soft words of encouragement into his ear. As soon as Aramis put his knife to the wounds, d'Artagnon's back arched as he grimaced in a split second of agony and then went utterly and blissfully limp as all consciousness fled.

"He was already at his limits," Aramis observed gravely as he set about working as swiftly as possible before the boy stirred. "I'm surprised he endured so long."

"He's a fighter, that's for sure." Porthos agreed.

"He is too proud and stubborn for his own good," Athos frowned, one hand resting lighting on d'Artagnon's head as he unconsciously stroked the sweat soaked hair. "He should have told us he was injured."

"Perhaps, you could postpone the lecture until the patient is back on his feet?" Aramis suggested lightly as he finally finished. "Or at least conscious so he might benefit from it?"

"I'll get some blankets," Porthos decided to find comfort in action. "Then we can take turns to keep watch."

Aramis kept a concerned eye on Athos as he washed his hands and tided away the debris of his impromptu surgery. Cleaning his equipment and putting it carefully away against the time it would be needed again. The man's face held an expression Aramis was all too familiar with.

"It's not your fault you know." He ventured, keeping his eyes on his task. "He wanted to be the one to do this and we all agreed to it."

"He wanted to impress me," Athos pointed out. "To prove I was not wrong to put my faith in him."

"Vadim is dead, d'Artagnon lives," Aramis reminded him. "We have suffered worse outcomes."

"He is just a boy," Athos protested.

In their short acquaintance d'Artagnon had wormed his way into his heart. The younger man's raw courage, fervent honour, loyalty to his King, country and companions, had impressed Athos beyond measure. Furthermore, the raw vulnerability he sometimes caught in his recently orphaned companion's eyes had brought out all of his protective instincts.

"I should have done more to discourage his ambitions," Athos rebuked himself. "Then he would not have been in such danger."

"I rather imagine he can find trouble without your help," Aramis observed dryly. "Better perhaps that he has friends like us to watch over him."

Athos almost smiled at the irony of that for it was he who owned d'Artagnon a debt of gratitude for saving his life. It was true that the young Gascon had a rash, impulsive, streak that daily seemed to threaten to turn his hair grey, but the boy was a responsibility that Athos could not now imagine ever walking away from.

"You should get some rest," Porthos returned, pressing a blanket upon him. The compassion in his eyes suggesting he had heard at least part of the conversation. "He'll need you when he wakes up."

Over the next few hours the three men took turns watching over the young Gascon as he tossed and turned in a restless sleep. Doing whatever they could to keep him comfortable.

"How is he?" Aramis asked, as he woke to relieve Porthos.

"Not good. His fever is rising," Porthos worried. "He keeps trying to talk of his father."

Porthos was not surprised when Athos looked swiftly at Athos, checking that the Musketer was still sleeping. d'Artagnon had done his duty in avenging his beloved father by killing Gaudet. Trying to support the proud and independent young man through the necessary steps of morning his loss had been another story altogether. In the end it had been the usually stoic Athos who had finally breached the walls the young man had built around his emotions, although he has refused to say exactly how.

"I'll see if I can get him to eat something," Aramis decided. "It will help keep up his strength."

A couple of hours later it was Athos who stirred and sat up. His eyes going first to the restless figure on the day bed and then to his fellow Musketeer.

"Any change?"

"Only for the worse," Aramis worried. "The wounds are infected. The cold and wet of the cellars has got into bones. His breathing is ragged and his fever rising."

"What happened to your eye?" Athos wondered.

"Our patient didn't much care for the soup." Aramis quipped, touching his bruises and swollen eye with a rueful smile.

"At least there is still some fight in him yet." Athos approved.

"He's young and fit. But there is almost nothing of him. His body doesn't have the energy to keep this up this fight much longer," Aramis warned gravely. "If the fever doesn't break he could well be dead by morning."

"Get some sleep. I'll sit with him."

Looking down at the very sick young man, tossing restlessly Athos settled on the edge of the bed, gently lifting d'Artagnon's head to rest on his thigh. He began to slide a hand through the dark, sweat matted locks, feeling a surge of satisfaction as the younger man's movements gradually stilled under his touch. Long, dark, lashes, fluttered against his pale face, before those deep brown eyes focused on him.

Lost in a sea of fever and pain, d'Artagnon had begun to feel himself slipping away, memories of his long dead mother, his murdered father, and the older brother who had never had time for him dancing in his head.

Now he wondered how the very presence of this man had so quickly come to mean safely and security. For a moment he had simply allowed himself to enjoy the comfort of his touch. Truth be told he did not have the strength to do anything else right now.

"Hurts," he rasped quietly.

Athos had to swallow hard at the level of trust in such a frank admission. That such a proud young man would let him see him so vulnerable was the greatest of privileges. Resting one hand on d'Artagnon's fevered brow, he felt his heart contract as the younger man leant into his touch.

"Here, drink,"

d'Artagnon felt his head being cupped in one large hand, as his dry lips were guided towards a cup of cooled beef broth. Trusting implicitly in the hands that held him, d'Artagnon sipped obediently at the nourishing liquid until he fell back exhausted.

"I'm sorry. I know I'm a disappointment to you," d'Artagnon looked away.

Athos hesitated. He knew that Aramis would be furious if he took the boy to task when he was barely able to say his own name. But part of him worried that the proud young man would not have the strength to fight off this fever if he continued to believe he had failed his friends.

"No more of that," Athos chided. "You did well. You kept yourself alive despite great odds. And you disposed of Vadim. Nobody could have asked more of you."

"I made mistakes," d'Artagnon admitted. "If I had been less careless Vadim would never have imprisoned me in the first place."

"No one could have expected what Vadim had planned," Athos excused him. "Although, you might have mentioned being tied to barrels of gunpower." He added dryly.

"Treville had the cellars searched?" d'Artagnon winced. "I managed to escape. I hoped you would not need to discover what a fool I had been to be captured."

"And that was your only fault," Athos fixed him with a stern look. "It was your duty to speak up about your injuries."

"In truth I barely felt a thing until after I killed Vadim," d'Artagnon tried. "The mission was all but over."

"Indeed, if you overlook the part where you went up against a dangerous killer, weak from hunger and loss of blood, barely recovered from your brush with death, with serious burns on your feet." Athos corrected. "Putting your life at risk. When any one of us might have easily despatched him in your stead."

"I was the one he tried to kill," d'Artagnon insisted trying to raise his head to better make his point, only to wince as the incautious movement sent wave of pain through him. "It was _my _fight."

"It was _our _fight." Athos corrected. "_That_ is what it means to be a Musketeer. Do you think it is just words when we speak of brotherhood? Or that any one of us would have stood by idly if we had known you were hurting?"

"I've been an idiot, haven't I?" d'Artagnon gave a bashful smile.

"Yes." Athos assured him baldly although his lips quirked in a smile as he cuffed the boy very gently. "Now go to sleep. That's an order by the way. Something you need to get used to following."

"Yes sir." d'Artagnon obediently settled down.

Afterwards they would tell him he had slept for fourteen hours. At first d'Artagnon thought it was one of Aramis and Porthos jests. Or something to do with the black eye Aramis suddenly seemed to be sporting, but refused to discuss. Only when he realised just quite how hungry he was did he begin to believe it.

"You're lucky Athos is so fond of you," Aramis pointed out, when d'Artagnon has summoned the courage to apologise to the other two as well for not revealing the extent of his injuries. "Plus youth does have some privileges."

"If either of us had kept an injury from him during a mission there would have been hell to pay," Porthos agreed. "Are you going to eat that roll?"

"Help yourself." d'Artagnon was still busy marvelling over the fact that Athos was fond of him. "Where is Athos by the way?"

"With Treville," Porthos spoke around mouthfuls of roll. "Arranging your pardon, if you keep on improving a few more days of rest and you should be fit enough to go home."

"Ah, about that," d'Artagnon looked pointedly at his bare feet. "I'm going to need some new boots."

"Already taken care of," Aramis collected up his now empty tray. "The cobbler used your old boots to gauge the size so they should fit perfectly once the swelling goes down."

"What should?" d'Artgnon called to his retreating back.

"These," Porthos grinned, as he dropped a pair of boots into d'Artagnon's lap and then followed Aramis out of the room before d'Artagnon could react.

They were, quite simply, the finest boots d'Artagnon had ever seen, made of the best quality leather, buffed to a beautiful shine, held together with careful, meticulous, stitches, with a sole made to last.

There was no way he could ever afford such quality.

Reluctantly, he realized that he would have to refuse the generous gift. He appreciated the sentiment but his father had brought him up never to be beholden to any man in matters of money and these were far more than his actions deserved. Reluctantly he went to put them aside.

"You don't like them?"

D'Artagnon looked up to see Athos standing in the doorway, a faint furrow marring his forehead.

"They're beautiful," d'Artagnon could not deny it. "It's just .. I cannot accept."

"Aramis will be dismayed," Athos came closer. "He tends to get rather maudlin when his offerings are rejected. Porthos on the other hand, will most likely go easy on you, due to your recent infirmity, at least until you are quite fully recovered, although, you are a braver man than I to throw Treville's generosity in his face."

"Treville?" d'Artagnon paused. "He had a part in this?"

"We all had an equal part."

"And you?" d'Artagnon asked boldly, secure in his growing bond with the older man. "How would you feel if I refused them?"

"My feelings in the matter are of no account," Athos eyed him sternly. "Given that you are going to accept the gift as no more than your due and not disappoint any of your friends."

"Friends?" d'Artagnon smiled tentatively. He liked the sound of that. "Well, in that case, I would be honored to accept."


End file.
